


don't you put me on the back burner

by thesmallestacorn



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Church Sex, Confessional, Fleabag AU, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Oral Sex, Unsafe Sex, i'm going to hell and so are they, jon is the hot priest, sinning, so much sinning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-26 14:39:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23073610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesmallestacorn/pseuds/thesmallestacorn
Summary: I hadn’t so much as touched a fic doc in a year, then I watched all of Fleabag in two days and hot priest!jon ate my brain, so then this happened mostly between the hours of 11pm and 5 am.
Relationships: Jon Favreau/Tommy Vietor
Comments: 18
Kudos: 32





	don't you put me on the back burner

**Author's Note:**

> Title from The Killers’ All These Things That I’ve Done, which is really, really the vibe and also because I listened exclusively to the Killers while writing this. Yes, I’m fine. No, this isn’t just an excuse to write Tommy smoking, I promise. I am fully prepared to be sent straight to hell. 
> 
> Some dialogue etc lifted from Fleabag. Content includes smoking, alcohol, unsafe sex, and much sinning. unbeta'd.
> 
> this is rpf, use your braincells re: not sharing.
> 
> thank you to the beans for your encouragement
> 
> With apologies to Phoebe Waller-Bridge, Brandon Flowers, and God.

His dad is getting married. Remarried. Whatever, he doesn’t want to talk about it. Really doesn’t want to talk about it. There’s nothing to say anymore, other than fuck everything about this family, and please let this hell be over as soon as possible. Tommy just wants to get through this stupid fucking dinner, drink too much wine (cause he’s not paying for it), and go home. Maybe keep drinking. Maybe jerk off a bit. Watch TV he’s watched 10 times before. But no, he’s pretty sure he’s gonna die here at this table, listening to his perfect sister and her dumb husband, his fucking dad and his stupid girlf--fianceé. He enunciates the “ee” in his head when he says it, because that’s what she’s like. Fianceeeeeee. She’s telling the proposal story yet again, this time to the priest. Which, what the actual fuck. Who invites their priest to a family dinner, even if he is performing their wedding. The Fianceeeeee really is a weird one. He is hot though, the priest. A really beautiful specimen, now that Tommy takes another look. Someone should put that shit in a museum. _ Why didn’t you become a model instead of burying your head in the Bible all day, _ he wants to ask. It’s a waste, now that he actually thinks about it. Being a Catholic priest, the guy presumably doesn’t have sex. What a fucking waste of a pretty face. He’s got a nice voice too, the priest. Smooth and velvety. Maybe Tommy should start going to church, just to listen to him talk and stare at him. 

“So what do you do?” Tommy’s inner monologue is rudely interrupted. He rearranges his face into a smile, turning to face the priest. 

“Oh, I’m in politics, I’m a consultant and do a lot of writing.”

The priest nods and smiles back. Fuck, the full force of it is a lot. He’d believe in God too if he were blessed with looks like that. “That’s awesome, man. I’ve dabbled in writing too. What’s it like to be in politics these days?”

Tommy answers, thankful to have a reprieve from the rest of the family. They fall naturally into a conversation, and it’s easy. Easy to talk to him like a friend, and forget he’s a priest. He’s drinking wine, and pushing up the sleeves of his button-down (_ fuuuccckkk _ ), dropping swear words ( _ not sure why that’s so hot but it is _ ), and laughing. He has a nice laugh. It’s almost-- _ almost _\-- enough to drown out his brother-in-law’s loud conversation with his dad about the dangers of PC culture. God, he needs to get out of here. 

“Excuse me,” Tommy says to the priest and absolutely no one else, and grabs his coat, checking the pockets as he heads outside. He’s grateful to find that Past Tommy remembered to stick a lighter in the left pocket, and shakes a cigarette out of the pack before he’s even out the door. He flicks the lighter in his hand a few times before lighting the cigarette and tipping his head back against the cool brick, nicotine clearing the bullshit from his head. He inhales too deeply, coughing a little, smoke stinging. There’s something to be said for being in control of your own self-destruction, which is probably fucked up, but what isn’t he fucked up about at this point? He wonders what they’re all talking about now at the table. Maybe the entrees have come by now. He should probably go back, but God, he’s not yet ready to face everyone again. He pretends to consider it for a minute before stomping out his cigarette and lighting another one. He’ll go back in after this one, he promises to no one in particular. “Just this last one,” he mutters. 

“That’s what I tell myself every time,” a voice says out of the darkness, and Tommy starts. God fucking damn it. 

“Oh, hey,” he says, hopefully casually. 

“Mind if I borrow one of those?” the priest asks, smiling again. He’s got this cute gap between his front teeth and soft pink lips. Tommy wants to see them wrapped around a cigarette, and not think about them wrapped around anything else. 

“Of course,” Tommy says, passing him one, definitely without any ulterior motives. He passes him the lighter as well, brushing his fingers. It’s electric, in a way he can’t remember feeling in a while. Fuck, he really can’t be doing this to himself. He goes back to his own cigarette, back to controlled self-destruction rather than whatever this is, and doesn’t look at the cigarette dangling between the priest’s beautiful fingers. They chat while they smoke; Tommy keeps catching himself flirting. 

“Did you always want to be a priest?” Tommy asks.

“Fuck no,” he answers, laughing. “I had many crises of faith, sinned many times, before committing to the church. I’m sure you can relate-- well, do you go to church?”

“Fuck no,” Tommy replies, joining him in laughter.

Tommy smokes until what’s left can’t conceivably be considered a cigarette, dolefully stubbing it against the brick and half-smiling at the priest, who takes one last long drag (_ fuck, his fingers _) and stubs his out as well, the butt falling right next to Tommy’s. He’s delayed long enough, he supposes, and heads back inside, the priest following him. 

The rest of the dinner is predictably miserable. His sister makes a snide remark about his smoking, then her wretched husband makes one about Tommy’s career, then another about his perpetual singledom, then another about how much wine he’s had, prompting Tommy to reach for the bottle and empty it into his glass with a glare. Their annoying waitress comes by almost immediately and asks if they’d like another bottle, to which the priest eagerly replies “Yes please,” flashing his gap-tooth smile at Tommy. Goddamn, this guy is great. He pours Tommy another glass, and Tommy tries to relax. 

The rest of the dinner is a blur. It ends in a fight about some dumb shit, and Tommy excuses himself to the bathroom as things wrap up, hoping for an Irish exit. He nearly gets one, except that the priest knocks to inform him that everyone has gone, and that he has Tommy’s coat. Tommy takes a deep breath and leaves the bathroom, thanking the priest. “It was nice meeting you,” he says as they leave the restaurant. 

“You too,” says the priest. “See you around, then?”

“Yeah,” says Tommy, lifting a hand to say goodbye. 

~

He tries not to think about The Hot Priest, he really does. Is he really so fucking lonely that he’s resorted to crushing on a priest? Apparently so. He’s not even religious, wasn’t raised Catholic, so he really doesn’t want to dive into whatever deep-seated psychological issues are behind this. It can’t be anything good. Maybe he should go to confession, isn’t that what people do? He jerks off too much, drinks too much, and pretends everything is fine. 

So naturally, he finds himself showing up to church, which he hasn’t done in God-knows-when. God would probably think it’s been a little too long, if He existed. The priest gives an elegant sermon-- he definitely has a way with words, and Tommy is transfixed. However, Tommy’s inexperience shows as he says the wrong things, drawing the attention of the priest, whose-- what’s the word for the fancy robes...vestment? -- is bizarrely attractive in a way Tommy _ really _ doesn’t want to get into. The priest is visibly flustered after noticing Tommy, which pleases Tommy immensely. He lingers after the priest greets the worshippers, trying to blend in until the last of them filters out. 

“Father,” Tommy says.

“I have to say, I wasn’t expecting you here.” He looks happy. 

“Yeah, I don’t know. I thought I’d drop by, I liked talking to you.” Tommy’s words are tumbling out of his mouth. 

“Ah, me too,” says the priest, flashing the gap-toothed smile again, and Tommy nearly dies on the spot. “Do you want to come back to my office for some tea? I have something for you.”

Tommy follows him, adjusting his hair as he goes. This feels like the start to a very weird category of porn, which he definitely won’t be looking up when he gets home. 

“Son, I get the sense that you’re going through a crisis of faith, or indeed, a crisis of self,” the priest says, sitting down after putting on the kettle.  
  


“Hit the nail on the head with that one there, father,” Tommy sighs. 

“Here,” the priest says, pulling a Bible from his desk and handing it to Tommy, their knuckles brushing. 

“I told you, I don’t believe in this shit.”

“I know. Think of it as poetry, as guidance. Life lessons, not a history textbook. You’re a writer, like me. There’s some good stuff here, trust me.” The priest has a glint in his eyes, his beautiful brown eyes. Tommy wants to drown in them. 

He takes the book and flips through it. There are highlights, sticky notes, scribbled notes in the margins.

“I took the liberty of marking a few things I thought you might enjoy.” Fuck.

“Thank you, father.”

“Of course.” The priest goes to turn off the kettle. “Earl grey okay?”

“Sure,” Tommy says, trying to remain calm.

The priest pours their tea, sliding a mug over to Tommy. “Actually, do you care for something stronger as well?”

Tommy can’t resist him. “Sure, what are you drinking?” He checks his watch: it’s noon. He laughs. “It’s noon.”

“Live a little, son. Probably a gin and tonic.”

“Alright, sounds good,” replies Tommy, sipping his tea. This is, beyond a doubt, one of the top ten weirdest conversations of Tommy’s life, and they’ve been here all of five minutes. 

Tommy flirts with him, he can’t help it, especially after the second gin and tonic. He’s hot, really fucking hot, his unavailability making the urge even stronger. Tommy’s a good flirt, he could seduce the priest if he really wanted to. God, imagine if he did it. He’d permanently alter the man’s sense of himself, his purpose in life, all for a good fuck. That kind of power is heady. _ Bless me father, for I have sinned. _ He’s tempted. _ Lead us not into temptation _. Jesus, he’s so fucked up.

Besides, if Tommy isn’t mistaken, the priest is flirting back. Shy glances, light touches, quick laughs. Who’s leading who into temptation now? 

~

Tommy finds himself spending more and more time with the priest. Their connection is strong, there’s no doubting it. He feels more like himself than he has in a long time. They make each other laugh, they’re helping each other. So what if he can’t stop staring at the priest’s long neck, his exposed throat, the top of his chest when he leaves the top button undone on his shirt, his long fingers reaching down to pet Lucca. And he really does try not to brush up against him too much when they’re walking next to each other. Tommy talks to him about work. “You’re lucky you’re not in politics, honestly. It’s kind of a nightmare right now.”

“Everything is politics. You think my job isn’t politics? My faith tells me to heal the sick and tend to the poor, but how can I when the government won’t do its part?”

Goddamn, he’s perfect. “Father, that was very eloquent, do you think I can contract you to write a few speeches for my clients?” Tommy inquires, subconsciously running his hands through his hair again. 

The priest smiles. “I’m gonna stick to my day job, thanks.”

~

They end up back at the priest’s place, gin and tonics in hand again, slightly too close on the couch. 

“Is it hard?” Tommy asks.

“Is what hard?”

“Your job, everything that comes with it?”

“I assume you’re referring to celibacy?” The priest sips his drink.

“I guess, yeah,” Tommy answers, somewhat abashedly.

“It is hard, sometimes. But this is my calling, and it’s just part of the job. Surely there are parts of your job you don’t like?” He kicks his legs up onto the table. Lovely, long legs. 

“I...yeah. I don’t know though, I don’t think I could do it. I like sex. The intimacy of it. And the pleasure, obviously.” Tommy turns towards the priest, glancing down at the couch then back up at him. 

“I liked it too, before I took the cloth. It is a natural part of being human after all, desire. Most of us enjoy sex.”

Tommy feels hot, he’s definitely red. Hopefully the drinks and the dim light are providing enough cover for him. “So what do you do? If there is someone, you know. Someone you want.” They’ve been circling around this long enough, though Tommy can’t quite bring himself to ask the question directly.

“I talk and drink and laugh and give them Bibles, and hope they eventually leave me alone.” The priest looks right at Tommy, his brown eyes deep. 

God fucking damn. He’s not sure what to say. To have his suspicions confirmed, that he’s _ not _ going insane. That it’s not just him who feels this-- the chemistry, the spark. His insides are jelly, his stomach swooping with dread and happiness and arousal and confusion and fear, fear that he’s going to ruin this man’s life, this man who he loves. Because that’s what the jelly feeling is, the feeling that he’s going to melt into a puddle on this couch. Love. Tommy closes his eyes. _ I’m in love with a priest, _ he says to God. _ Forgive me. _

“I…” Tommy whispers, no words coming to him still.

“We’re not going to have sex,” says the priest, looking at a point just above Tommy’s shoulder. 

“Right,” says Tommy, numb. He worries that the first true friendship he’s had in a long time just crumbled. He doesn’t even know if he believes the priest. He’s never been a man of much faith, in people or in God. Or in God’s people, in this instance. 

Shit is fucked, as per usual. 

~

Tommy decides he’s not going to let a dumb crush ruin this friendship. Things go back to how they were, with maybe a little less flirting. Well, Tommy’s trying to flirt less. They take Lucca to the park, go get coffee, talk about life, and enjoy each other’s company, ignoring the sexual tension. Tommy’s proving to himself, one day at a time, that he’s not as completely fucked up as he thinks, that he is capable of being friends with someone, capable of not having perverse sexual thoughts about someone so off-limits. He finds porn not remotely related to anything he’s feeling and forces himself to focus on it while he jerks off, not letting any other thoughts enter his head. He thinks about trying to fuck someone else, but he can’t bring himself to download Tinder and he isn’t in the mood to hit on someone in a bar or text an old hookup. It’s okay--if the priest can be celibate, so can he. He spends his weekend watching TV, smoking two packs of cigarettes, killing half a bottle of whiskey, and pretending he’s fine. They’re friends. 

~

Tommy strolls into the church for the first time since _ that _ conversation. He pokes his head into the priest’s office, but there’s no one in there, which seems strange until he hears piano music coming from the sanctuary. Of course. The priest had mentioned he plays piano. Tommy walks quietly towards the music, a classical piece he vaguely recognizes. The priest doesn’t notice him at first, and Tommy can’t help but fixate on his elegant fingers moving deftly over the keys, the way he breathes and moves with the music. Is there anything he can’t do? Tommy loses himself in the music, transfixed. He finishes the piece, stretching, and notices Tommy standing there. “Sorry,” Tommy says sheepishly. 

“Oh, that’s okay,” he replies. 

“You’re very good,” Tommy says. 

“Thanks. I thought about making a career of it, for a while.”

“You could.”

“What brings you here today?” the priest asks. 

“I’m--” Tommy pauses. He honestly doesn’t know. “I don’t know, I’m just-- I’ve got-- there’s just so much fucking shit, all the time, you know?” He pauses. “Sorry,” he says, to a statue of the Virgin Mary. “I need help, father.”

“Fuck you calling me father like it doesn’t turn you on just to say it.”

Tommy nearly passes out right there. He’s not _ wrong _, per se, but to have it said aloud like that is frankly, uncalled for.

“Do you want a drink?” The priest breaks the silence.

“Uh, sure.” Tommy follows him into his office. He grabs a bottle of whiskey from his shelf and pours Tommy one, then himself, draining it and pouring a second one. 

Tommy takes a sip. “Is the piano just for fun now,” he asks, trying to diffuse the tension. 

“Yes,” the priest replies, “though I’m hoping to learn organ at some point, which would be a little more applicable.”

They make more idle conversation, the whiskey relaxing Tommy. He pours a second glass. 

The priest can clearly tell Tommy’s still struggling. “Would you maybe like to go to the confession booth?”

“Confession booth?” 

“Yes. I promise, I’m very good.” 

Tommy pauses, unsure if that has the connotation he thinks or if he just has a dirty mind.

“It is a regular part of my job, after all.”

Never mind then. “Sure.” He drains his whiskey, as does the priest, giving him that gap-toothed smile again. The priest refills their glasses one more time, and they walk down the hallway, Tommy definitely feeling the alcohol a bit now. 

They get in the booth, Tommy on one side, the priest on the other. “Uh,” Tommy pauses, “I don’t know...I’m not too familiar with this.”

“It’s okay,” the priest says, his voice honey smooth. 

“You promise I won’t catch on fire?” Tommy asks, only half-joking.

“If you do, it will be a confirmation of my faith,” the priest says. “So, you start with ‘bless me father for I have sinned,’ and traditionally one crosses oneself, then you say how long it’s been since your last confession. Then tell me whatever is on your mind. I’m here to listen.”

“Okay.” Tommy’s always felt weird about religious traditions. “Uh, bless me father, for I have sinned.” He doesn’t cross himself, that’s a bridge too far. “I, uh, don’t really go to confession, so I guess it’s been 34 years.” 

“Okay. Tell me your sins.”

“You nosy bastard,” Tommy jokes. This is all far too weird. “Um, I’ve lied. About a lot of things. I mean, I’m in politics, so I guess you could say I get paid to lie.” He chuckles. “And, I guess, I’ve stolen. And cheated.”

“Good,” the priest says, his voice deeper than usual. “Go on.”

Tommy clears his throat. “I, well, lots of premarital sex. Lots. Um, decent amount of sodomy, too. Men. Yeah. Um, let’s see. Do you guys consider jerking off a sin? I’ve definitely done plenty of that.”

“Continue.” God, he has such a sexy voice. Tommy has never gotten over that. 

“And I’m just, I’m so fucked up about so much stuff. All the time. Guilt, anxiety. I’ve hurt too many people, and I don’t know how to fucking live my life like a normal person, and I fall in love with people I shouldn’t. Is swearing too much a sin? Swearing in a church? I definitely do that too.” 

He hears the priest take a deep breath. “Good, keep going.”

“And I just, I feel out of control, like I need someone to tell me how to live my life. What to do with myself. Just fucking tell me what to do, father.” A tear runs down his cheek, and he inhales sharply. 

“Kneel,” says the priest, in a soft, smooth voice. 

“What?” asks Tommy, genuinely confused. 

“Kneel,” the priest orders and Tommy obeys, setting his glass on the ledge and feeling the cold of the confession booth floor through his pants. He hears the panel opening and looks up to see the priest, standing over him. He looks tall and imposing, commanding, staring down at Tommy. Tommy’s head spins, not from the alcohol, but from how _ controlled _ he suddenly feels. This was exactly what he needed. This, he’s sure, is his calling. Tommy’s not sure what the priest will do next but he’s in charge now, or perhaps He’s in charge, and either way Tommy is ready. Tommy’s eyeline is right at the bulge in the priest’s robes, like he’s kneeling before the altar of the priest’s cock, and he wants it, really fucking wants it. The priest looks down at him again, eyes dark, then kneels in front of him. The priest places a hand on the side of Tommy’s face, tracing a thumb softly over his cheekbone, gazing at him like he’s a statue to be worshipped. He doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to break the spell they’re both under, he wants this feeling forever. He waits. 

The priest tips his head forward and lightly brushes his lips over Tommy’s, ever so softly, and Tommy feels like he’s floating, floating on a cloud towards heaven. Weeks of tension suddenly break, the cord between them snapping, and the priest grabs his head with his other hand and pulls Tommy towards him, kissing him, hard, worshipping him with his soft lips and his tongue. Tommy has never felt like this, it’s enough to make him believe in God, because no earthly science can explain it. Any doubts that this might not be a good idea evaporate, mix with the smoke of the candles lit behind him, drifting away towards the roof and to heaven above them. Fuck heaven, this is heaven, right here, the priest’s hands on his face and in his hair, his lips parting to catch Tommy’s between them. Light filters in through the stained glass window above them, candles flickering. They rise, still intertwined, and the priest presses Tommy against the wall of the booth, hands traveling down, running across his chest and arms. Tommy scrambles to move the black cloth of his robes, to get to what he wants, to feel the priest hard against him. The priest’s hair is mussed, quite different than his usual neat look, and he’s got an angry mark right above the collar of his uniform, where Tommy had licked and sucked and bitten his beautiful neck for what felt like hours. He’s reaching for Tommy’s belt, hands scrambling to undo his pants, and Tommy mirrors him, tries in vain to undo those confusing robes. 

“I, what, I don’t know how,” Tommy mumbles, and the priest removes his hands from Tommy for just a minute, which is absolute hell, but he’s rewarded when the priest reveals his cock, hard and pink and thick and wet, fuck, he’s already dripping. All the blood left in Tommy’s head rushes to his own dick, and he feels floatier than ever, ready to completely give in. 

“Kneel,” says the priest again deeply, looking Tommy straight in the eye. 

“Yes father,” he murmurs, and falls to his knees, ready to worship, to pray for forgiveness for what’s about to happen. He closes his eyes and opens his mouth, tongue out, ready to receive. The priest touches his cock to Tommy’s lips, velvety and warm, then pushes into his mouth, torturously slowly. Tommy can’t help but smile at the low moan that escapes the priest’s throat as he tips his head back against the wall of the booth. Fuck, he loves making people feel good, having his mouth on them, but never more than right now, hearing the priest curse, knowing how long it’s been since the priest had someone touch him like this, knowing that the priest can’t do anything but card his long fingers into Tommy’s hair and ask God to forgive him. Holy shit, he has an actual goddamn priest fucking his mouth in a confessional booth. If hell exists, he’s going straight there, and he doesn’t care anymore. All he cares about is the weight of the priest’s cock hot on his tongue, licking him and sucking him and making him groan and swear, all semblance of holiness gone. 

Tommy pulls off, licking his hand and wrapping it around the priest’s dick. “It’s hot when you curse.”

“Fuck you,” the priest says breathlessly as Tommy twists his hand up and down. 

“I wouldn’t mind that,” says Tommy, cheekily. The priest groans again and pushes Tommy’s head back down, and Tommy accepts the offering eagerly, tongue working, mouth hitting his hand as he moves it up and down. Tommy relaxes into it for a few minutes, enjoying the pain in his knees and the soreness of his jaw. 

“Fuck-- you-- you gotta stop, I’m--” 

Tommy pulls off, kissing the tops of his thighs, giving his ass a squeeze. He wants to finish him, but he’s not in charge here. 

“Here,” the priest says, pushing Tommy into the corner of the booth. “Let me--”. Tommy lets him. Lets him finally pull down his pants, put his pretty pianist hands into Tommy’s underwear, pulling those down too as runs his fingers over Tommy’s aching cock, like Tommy’s seen him run them over scripture. “Let me,” he repeats, and drops to his knees.

Fuck, he’s good. Really, really good. The priest has fully committed to going to hell as well, it seems, and Tommy’s more than fine with that. He runs his tongue up and down the length of him, pausing to lick zealously at the head, and Tommy lets out a noise he didn’t know he was capable of making. The priest worships Tommy’s dick, like he’s never again going to use his mouth for invocation or reading scripture ever again, like he’s never again going to use his hands for the rosary or giving out communion, like this is what he was made for, that this is his true calling. Suddenly, he pulls off, and Tommy decides that there’s no point in even existing on this earth anymore if he’s not gonna have the priest’s mouth on him. “Wha--” he manages to say, and the priest stands up, lifts one of his gorgeous hands off of Tommy’s thigh and puts it over his mouth to quiet him. Tommy feels immediately controlled again, and he likes it, he fucking likes it. Then the priest takes one long finger, _ so pretty _ , and touches it softly to Tommy’s lips. Tommy opens his mouth, like it’s some sort of perverted communion, and closes his lips around the priest’s finger, licking and sucking. The priest circles his finger around Tommy’s mouth, then pulls it out slowly. “Spread your legs a little,” he murmurs, and Tommy obeys. Then, _ fuck _, he brings the slick finger between Tommy’s legs, pressing back towards his ass, gently, eyes dark as he watches Tommy for a reaction. Tommy’s mouth drops open with pleasure as the priest starts circling his hole, waiting for Tommy to beg. And beg he does, he can’t help it, he needs it, so fucking badly. 

“Please,” he gasps, “please.” The priest hears his prayers and pushes his finger in, so slowly, torturously. Tommy has a brief thought that God might strike him down here and now, then forgets it as soon as the priest curls his finger up, hitting Tommy exactly where he needs it. 

“Oh, _ fuck _,” Tommy moans, and the priest kneels again, taking Tommy’s dick back into his pretty mouth, looking up at him through long lashes, fingering him the whole time. Fuck, he’s not going to last, and he tries to say something, but he can’t get any words out. His brain is short-circuiting, everything reduced to overwhelming pleasure. He’s hurtling towards the edge, unstoppable, and he tries to pull back, but the priest grabs his ass with his free hand and pulls him back. Tommy’s cock hits the back of his throat at the same time as the priest somehow presses a second finger into him, impossibly tight. If this is how he dies, it’s worth it. He remains on the edge for an improbably long time, then the priest licks the hand that isn’t preoccupied with fingering him and wraps it around the length of his cock, tonguing at the head, and Tommy comes with a loud moan, harder than he’s come in a long time, relief coursing through his veins. The priest keeps his mouth on Tommy as he shudders through it, then pulls off as Tommy sighs with relief, a few drops shining on his pink lips and chin. 

“Jesus Christ,” Tommy whispers, and the priest laughs a little as he pulls his fingers out of Tommy. Tommy feels empty, wrung out, satisfied. 

“Not sure He’d be very happy with us at the moment,” the priest says, and Tommy laughs. What the actual fuck has he just done. 

“God, I’ve missed that,” adds the priest, voice gravelly, and just his cadence is enough to make Tommy shudder lightly again. He runs his fingers through Tommy’s hair, just the slightest pressure, and Tommy instinctively knows what the priest wants next. He’s already falling to his knees again when the priest says “kneel,” in the same dark tone. 

“I missed this too,” the priest groans as Tommy sucks him down devotedly. Tommy licks around the now-familiar shape of his cock, needy. He’s got a man of the cloth moaning and begging for him inside a confession booth, holy fuck, and if he were ten years younger it would be enough to have him hard again. Tommy looks up, and he’s leaning his head back against the wall, lips parted in pleasure, long eyelashes fluttering. Tommy’s got him on the edge, he can tell. 

“God, please,” the priest moans, and Tommy doesn’t know if that comment was directed at him, but he’s not going to stop until he gets what he wants. The priest tightens his grip on Tommy’s head, and Tommy sucks hard as he feels the priest’s hips stutter, thighs shaking beneath Tommy’s hands. The priest pushes into Tommy’s mouth once last time and comes on Tommy’s tongue, warm and salty, shouting “fu-uck” into the quiet sanctity of the church. Tommy swallows around him before finally pulling off. The priest collapses against the wall of the booth, and Tommy sinks to the floor beside him, breathing hard.

The air is silent around them. The priest looks fully debauched, hair mussed, prominent brow bones slick with sweat, lips red and swollen, and, _ oh God _, a drop of Tommy’s come drying on his collar. Tommy’s sure he looks just as debased. His knees and jaw ache, but he can’t be bothered to care, he’s too fucked. He isn’t sure what to say, so he stays quiet. What do you say after you’ve just fucked a priest in a church? The priest looks wracked with guilt, a shadow across his face and his shoulders hanging. He dresses silently. Tommy wants to apologize, knows he should say something, but no words form, so he pulls on his underwear, not looking at the priest. Tommy grabs his drink off the ledge, miraculously unspilled, and drains it. 

“How did we not spill that,” the priest asks, breaking the tension. 

“I don’t know,” replies Tommy softly, smiling at him. The priest seems to hesitate for a minute before smiling back. Tommy loves the gap between his teeth. Tommy loves how he traces a finger along the wall of the booth. Tommy loves the way he glances towards the ceiling, _ forgive me _ etched on his handsome face. Tommy loves him. 

He opens his mouth to say it, but something stops him, and he exits the booth, the priest following him, their footsteps echoing down the silent hallway.  
  



End file.
